


the ceaseless harvest

by Self_san



Series: the howl of the night [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe Post Season 1, Alternate Universe-Gender Changes, Always-a-girl!Stiles, Multi, Pack, Stiles Dealing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 09:04:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Self_san/pseuds/Self_san
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because the only harvest that never ends is sorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the ceaseless harvest

Stiles is both surprised and _not_ that she can still find the pure, burning _rage_ that had her thinking about Molotov-ing her Alpha’s furry ass, every time that she looks at Lydia.

(Lydia has finally woken up, and school has come back from the short, imposed break by the Sheriff’s Department, and Stiles brings her her homework everyday. Everyday.)

 _Surprised,_ because Stiles hadn’t thought she was capable of such hatred, such pure, unbridled _fury_ every time she thinks about Lydia’s pale, beautiful skin stained redred _red_ and the Alpha--

Stiles has to cut herself off, cracking her neck and forcing a breath out through her clenched teeth, forcing the wolf away. (She hadn’t popped claws or turned on her snazy new headlights, but, she had _felt_ them.)

 _Not surprised,_ because it had been _Lydia_ that the Alpha had attacked, had _maimed_ , had _scarred_. Lydia _Martin_ , the girl Stiles had been half in love with, ever since she had first seen the hidden, great intelligence shinning behind Lydia’s eyes that somehow, _everyone_ _else_ _seemed_ _to_ _have_ _missed_.

(How, Stiles hadn’t _known_ , because Lydia wore _smart_ like she wore her strawberry blonde hair and her stylish clothing, like dating Jackson and being the Queen of the Hills. Effortlessly.)

God, once upon a time, Lydia had been _everything_ that Stiles had wanted to be--sexy _and_ smart. A girl _and_ a girlfriend.

Yeah, Stiles had grown out of that stage of her life (because, really, she had to face the fact that she would rather be down at the firing range with her dad than hooking a hottie) and she was _just_ at that point where she was starting to be comfortable just being _herself_.

Yes, she liked guns. Yes, she enjoyed reading and playing lacrosse and watching Star Wars. No, she didn’t like the feel of heavy makeup on her face, or the pulling tightness of trying to curl her hair, trying to force it into anything other than a few simple styles that were more for efficiency then they were for looks. No, she didn’t like _Austen_ and she thought that _Dickens_ was just blowing smoke out of his ass. Yes, she thought that the media was ruining young girls’ self-esteem.

But Lydia was still _Lydia_. A shinning brightness in the rushed, Technicolor blur that was Stiles’s life. Something, someone, that Stiles could take a breath and just _focus_ on, when the world got too much, too loud, too fast.

And the Alpha had tried to _take that away._

And Stiles was having a hard time dealing with that.

*

It takes about two weeks for it all to come to a head.

Two weeks of visiting Lydia, chattering and doing homework and giving the gossip of the school. (Not that Stiles is really all that connected, but it doesn’t seem like _anyone_ else is coming to visit Lydia, and the other girl always looks much more comfortable when Stiles talks about something she’s well-versed in.)

Two weeks of dodging her father’s careful probes into her after-school life.

Two weeks of telling him that she’s just hanging out with Scott/practicing more lacrosse/visiting Lydia when really, Stiles is mostly spending the time being thrown into the old railroad depot’s fucking shitty walls and getting back up afterwards in an effort to learn about ‘urban warfare.’ Or running through one of many Hunter Patented Hell-Courses in the woods around the Hale House, designed by Chris Argent, who is, obviously a sadist.

Of immense proportion.

Yes, you heard Stiles, oh, _yes_ : Christopher- _Fucking_ -Argent is a _Fucking_ _Sadist_.

She will _swear_ to this statement. _There is no other option._ The courses are bloody, long, and something that the Navy SEALs would probably wet their big-boy tidy-whities to have a _shot_ at. But Stiles is _not_ a Navy SEAL. She will never _be_ a Navy SEAL. She will never _want_ _to_ _be_ a Navy SEAL. She is a _teenaged_ _girl_ _just_ _recently turned into a werewolf_ being forced through the torturous brain-children of a man who has been _hunting monsters most of his life_. And she is trying to _live through it._

Yeah. That’s it. Live through it. She certainly has no designs on beating the damn things, that’s for sure.

And, let her just say _this_ to any nay-sayers: Stiles has almost lost a hand exactly _once_. Which, obviously, just goes to show how great a teacher pain is, really, because Stiles has not made that mistake _twice_ , no siree.

(It just all sucks. _Sucks_ sucks. Like. _Really_. Sucks. And _yes_ , she was right about how big of a badass Mr. Argent is. And how much of that genetic inheritance Allison has received. And, wow. Holy _shit_ , are they awesome. Also; _yes_ , it’s fucking _obvious_ that Derek and Peter were born into this whole, _werewolf_ thing. It really, _really_ is.)

And, okay, so, Stiles feels Mr. Argent’s pain. Really, she does. The man is trying to instill a lifetime of Hunter Lessons into them as quickly and concisely as he possibly can, to help them and keep them alive. And, really, the man seems to be acclimatizing to his new, er, _state of being_ better than could be expected. (By which Stiles means that he hasn’t gone on a murderous rampage followed by a round of seppuku. It’s been good, so far.)

But Stiles is dying. _Dying_. And Scott, Jackson, and Allison don’t seem too far off. Even _Derek_ is fading.

(Peter just grins, sweaty and triumphant and obviously enjoying just being able to _move_ , and marshals them back up to run it all over again. Mr. Argent? Visibly unaffected.)

And this has been going on since the day _after they first went back to Peter’s._

Two weeks of late nights and bloody knuckles barely healing by morning. Two weeks of keeping her head down in practice so as not to attract attention to the fact that she is suddenly so much better. Two weeks of exhausted sleep and worry and anger and pain.

But Stiles is careful, God, is she freaking careful about how she sets it up.

She waits, sipping her water, as Scott and Jackson ship off, heading for their homes. As Allison kisses her father’s cheek and heads off to the trailer they call their own, Derek at her heels. As Mr. Argent heads to the woods to dismantle his traps, like he does each night.

Peter stays behind, leaning against the crooked porch-post, looking up into the sky.

Stiles watches him, and waits.

The forest is alive around them, and now that she’s had some practice, Stiles can close her eyes and hear the leaves falling to the ground, the scritch-scratching of the tree-branches as they sing together, the whisper of the wind off the mountain.

It’s peaceful, in it’s loudness, and Stiles lets her attention jump from thing to thing, her fingers tapping against the rotten wood under her legs. She’s nervous, but strangely still, all at the same time. It’s sending her heart into a faster beat than it already is, and she can smell the clean sweat and pure _guy_ scent of Peter where he’s standing beside her.

It’s distracting, in the fact that it smells so _good_. Like home and warmth and--

“Yes, Stiles, is there something that you needed?” Peter finally asks. Stiles’s heart jumps into her throat with surprise.

But Stiles doesn’t let herself hesitate.

“Can we talk?” she asks, patently looks everywhere _but_ Peter. Her fingers pick ceaselessly at the wood beside her, and, thoughtlessly, she lets her claws out to scrape into the wood.

“Isn’t that what we’re doing now?” Peter huffs a laugh and asks, clearly amused.

He’s not looking at her, which is the only reason Stiles can add, “Alone?” quietly to the end of his statement.

It’s a gamble, but she can’t--no. She _won’t_ do this in front of the others. (Or, really, in front of the other’s _ears_.)

And it’s not just for her sake. It’s for Peter’s, too.

(Though her wolf is chafing at the thought of questioning her Alpha, the human in Stiles just can’t--she _can’t_ let it go on any longer, not knowing. Wondering.

It would probably kill her.

So she shoves the wolf, her friend and sister spirit, down into the ground around her, letting go of the animal instincts that always crowd around the corners of her mind.

Leaving Stiles. Calm and clear-headed and still scared.)

“Why, Stiles, are you _propositioning_ me?” Peter quips, teasingly.

Stiles doesn’t bother catching her snort in her throat. “Don’t be a _creeper_ , Peter,” she says, tired and still slightly scared, though Peter trying to banter with her helps, some.

Peter sighs. “Yes, Stiles, we can talk,” he adds, a bit more seriously as he hops gracefully from the porch, waving for her to follow him.

They go into the woods, past the courses, to the place where the trees turn the thickest and the hollows catch and trap all sound. As they walk, Stiles can feel the growing moon above her head and the chill of the earth beneath her feet--feel the bruises coating her ribs and throat shrink and warp, blood vessels healing, skin mending.

A flower blooming backwards.

The leaves coating the ground crackle and hiss under their feet, and they are far enough away that they won’t have to wonder about listening ears.

Well, except the trees. (They are the _worst_ gossips, Stiles swears.)

Peter turns, leaning against a trunk, and gestures at her to continue.

Stiles takes a deep breath, forcing her feet to be still and her hands to fold peaceably at her sides, and says, as clearly as she can, “I want to tell Lydia.”

Peter sounds surprised, and Stiles isn’t looking at him, or she might have been able to read his face.

(It’s getting easier and easier--to feel his moods, hear the shifting cadence in his speech, tell the tightening of his shoulder and back. Stiles doesn’t know if it’s her wolf, or just her. Doesn’t know which she would prefer.)

“Your little red-headed friend?” he asks, and Stiles can see from the side of her eye as he shifts, folding his arms across his chest, confident and calm and utterly _in control of_ himself.

But that was just Peter, Stiles was beginning to realize.

Stiles nods. “Yes.”

“Why?” Peter asks, and he rubs a hand over the bottom of his face.

His composure is just--infuriating. Utterly enraging. As if he didn’t know _why._

“Because she deserves to know what happened to her!” Stiles yelled, her voice reverberating up into the sky. “She doesn’t, and it’s eating at her, and I--”

Stiles cuts herself off, and turns her back on Peter, trying not to--

“Do you blame yourself, Stiles?” Peter asks softly, taking slow steps towards her; she can hear the leaves beneath his feet.

“No.” Stiles remembers that Peter can hear her lying, which, wow, that was weird, she really…wasn’t telling the truth. “Yes,” she adds quickly, blinking away the sudden, frustrated feeling that caught around her throat. She turns, facing Peter, pointing an accusing finger. “Mostly, I tend to blame you.”

Peter blinks at the finger, a smile twitching around his mouth.

“Ah, for what I did to her,” Peter observes candidly, stepping around her finger and circling.

Like a predator.

Stiles tries to keep her scruff from rising at the obvious threat.

“Yes,” she grits out.

“That’s reasonable,” Peter hums thoughtfully. But a smile is drifting around the corners of his mouth, and his eyes are still a bright, calm blue. His head cocks to the side as he stops before her, reaching out to curl a lock of Stiles’s hair around his fingers in a familiar gesture.

Stiles forces herself not to snarl and jerk away.

“And you’re still upset about what happened, aren’t you?” Peter croons softly, and, had Stiles detected any mocking in his voice, she wouldn’t have been able to stop herself from launching herself at the man, trying to tear his face off.

But he’s not making fun of her, just pointing something out.

“No, I’m not _upset_ , Peter,” she snarls, jerking her head away from him, staring up at his chin and glaring. “I’m _furious_. I’m _enraged_. I am not _upset_ ,” she hisses, a low growl trying to trickle from her throat.

Peter is just staring at her now, his face blank and _dead_ \--eerily reminiscent of his crazy-period. It stops Stiles for a moment, freezing her heart as his hands lay lax at his sides.

He isn’t teasing, he isn’t quipping. He’s just… _still_.

A wolf in human skin.

“You’ve been holding this in this entire time, haven’t you?” He asks softly, looking closely at her.

Stiles meets his eyes, and is instantly entrapped. A mistake on her part, and she curses herself for it as Peter take a single, slow step, insinuating himself into her space.

He’s much taller that her, and her chin rises to hold his eyes. Her heart is hammering in her mouth.

It leaves her throat painfully bare.

“And what, pray-tell, would you have me do?” Peter practically whispers, rubbing his nose slowly along her cheek, his chest brushing hers as he breathes.

Stiles gasps for air. “You haven’t even apologized!” she finds herself saying, weakly, into her Alpha’s mouth.

“Would that make things better?” Peter’s voice is deeper and his teeth scrap along Stiles’s cheek.

“For you to be sorry, to feel even the slightest bit of remorse? Yes, it would make me feel better!” Peter jerks away, his eyes flying wide, and Stiles just can’t _shut her mouth._ “You, you _told me_ that you weren’t the bad guy, and I’m trying, I’m _trying_ to believe you, I _am._ But I don’t, I _can’t--”_ she’s scrambling for words, and her arms are clenched around her ribs.

Something dark comes into Peter’s eyes, and then he’s _back,_ and now his hand is _around her throat._

Oh God, shitshit _shit_ \--is all Stiles has the chance to think, as she sees something that could be her death close in around her.

The forest is utterly still.

“Stiles Stilinski,” he says her name gravely, and Stiles wonders if he’s going to go for the complete cliché and actually say, ‘goodbye.’ He doesn’t. “I am sorry you are hurt. I am not sorry that by hurting your friend, I got what I needed from you,” Peter says this lowly, detached and cold and utterly ruthless. But his hand is soft around her neck, just holding, not biting down, not tearing away.

“You are _good_ , Stiles. I haven’t been good in a very, very long time,” his eyes are closed, and he rests his cheek against hers as she tries to gain her breath, to quiet her heart.

She is still afraid, but the feeling is creeping away.

“And Lydia?” she croaks, helpless not to ask.

Peter laughs softly, and pulls away.

“Always so selfless, aren’t you?” he sighs, taking one step, then two, then three, slowly melting into the darkened woods, his eyes the only gleam of light.

His voice comes from the shadows. “ _No_ ,” and his voice is guttural and deep. His gaze sinks to red as he begins to shift. “Allow her to live in her…innocent world, Stiles. After everything, don’t you think she deserves that?”

And Stiles is left standing in the hollow, all alone.

*

Stiles takes a few minutes, curled at the bottom of a tree, to sob breathlessly. A few, sparse tears run down her cheeks in belated reaction as she tries to catch her breath.

Then she wipes off her face, patting her cheeks so she doesn’t _look_ like she was crying, and stands, brushing off her dirty jeans as she does.

She is inordinately cold--colder than she’s been since she was Turned, and she shivers and shakes for a few seconds before she gets herself under control.

She had forgotten how _dangerous_ Peter was, in the past days--because he was funny and caring and _nice_. But she had _forgotten_ how closely he carried his wolf, his alien other. His bloodlust and _rage_.

He wasn’t yet done grieving for his lost family, Stiles realized, catching her breath before she stared walking back to the Hale House.

It was like he had lived six years in darkness--in pain and fire and fury. And he was only just coming out of it.

Was only just starting to feel something else.

Yes, he had scared her, Stiles admitted, shoving her hands into her pockets, staring at the ground as she walked. He had scared her… _badly_.

But she could deal with that, she reasoned, lifting her chin stubbornly, tilting her head to the moon.

And it wasn’t like the others had to know just how unhinged Peter still was, if they didn’t know already. Just Stiles.

And that was fine, Stiles figured. She could keep that to herself.

Stiles ran a tongue over her lip, her fingers ghosting over her cheek.

Peter hadn’t drawn blood, but she could still feel the whisper of his mouth against her skin, and it was setting her heart racing in a wholly different way then before.

She snorted to herself and flung her hand away, stomping angrily one step, two, into a familiar clearing. She stopped for a scarce second, her eyes zeroing in on the disturbed ground, her heart and instincts kicking into overdrive before she saw the figure standing at the other end.

Mr. Argent.

Stiles felt her shoulders drop, and she contemplated stepping back into the forest and heading the long way around, back to her Jeep. She hadn’t realized that her nose was leading her straight to where Mr. Argent was packing up his supplies.

Too late, she thought, as Mr. Argent’s eyes slid over to where she was standing.

He didn’t look surprised, and Stiles didn’t wonder whether or not he had heard/smelled her coming.

Mr. Argent’s senses were the keenest of the entire Pack. Probably a left-over from his Hunter training, Stiles had always reasoned.

“Stiles, are you alright?” Mr. Argent frowned, standing from his crouch seamlessly. His head was tilted to the side, and Stiles saw how his nose flared, scenting her.

She smiled weakly. “I--no. No, I’m not. But I’m working on it. That counts for something, right?” she asked, walking over to where he was standing by his things--ropes and industrial-grade bear traps, silver spikes and wolfsbane tipped arrows.

He hummed soundlessly, peering at her closely.

Stiles knew he could smell the salt on her hoodie sleeves and her cheeks--Peter and fear and sadness.

“Yes, it does,” Mr. Argent said slowly, nodding. He then looked down at his things.

When he looked back up, something of his usual quiet composure was regained, and he waved at his things.

(Because Mr. Argent only smiled the creepy smile at the unsuspecting masses, a blatant, ‘nope, no trouble here, I’m just a good-ole boy’ smile that had everyone nodding and looking away. Stiles had always thought it was more than a little disturbing, and found that she much more like his quiet sarcasm and crooked grins. The ones that reached his eyes.)

“Would you mind helping me carry these back? It’ll spare me a second trip.”

Stiles nodded, picking up the ropes and sliding them up her arms to rest over her shoulders. “Sure, Mr. Argent.”

They walked in companionable silence, Stiles focusing on not tripping over any spare roots and keeping hold of Mr. Argent’s ropes. With him, she found that she rarely felt the need to fill the silence with words. He was never… _heavy_ with unspoken things, like so many people were.

Which was why it was surprising when he said out of the blue, “You know, you’ve done well with all of this.”

“I’m impressed,” he added a second later, when Stiles was still gaping at him.

“Thanks, Mr. Argent,” she said carefully, shrugging off the comment. “Don’t take this the wrong way, though, okay? Because I am like, totally dying on these things.” Sheepishly, she ducked her head.

Mr. Argent laughed quietly.

“You’re not the only one. But it takes time. You’re getting there. You should see a human try and run one of these.”

His smile was pure mischief as he bumped his elbow against her shoulder. A familiar jolt of electricity raced up her spine, like a shock of lightening, straight into her heart.

“Yes, all Hunter Initiates run these courses, Stiles,” he said, amusedly when Stiles just…stared at him. In utter disbelief.

“That…is… _so_ crazy.”

“Most also have a bit more training than you kids do,” he mused a moment later.

Stiles snorted, still reeling from that bit of information. She tired to picture Mr. Argent as a skinny kid, running the courses with the rest of the Pack, and felt like wincing.

“I bet it’s still a freaking bloodbath,” she pointed out, breathlessly, her imagination running away with her as they left the tree line and headed over to the lock-box Mr. Argent had in his trunk, where they kept all Hunter goodies.

“Ah, well, some of the modifications are things that Peter and I came up with,” Mr. Argent admitted, waiting for Stiles to set the ropes down before he placed his own things on top of them. The bear traps gleamed.

He closed the box with a snap, twisting the keys and sliding them into the pocket of his canvas coat.

They stood there in the cold, their breaths fogging the air, whispering up to the sky where the moon was becoming ripe with time.

“That…explains so much,” Stiles felt the urge to say. Uncharitable where Peter was mentioned.

She didn’t see Mr. Argent’s gaze sharpen on the top of her head.

She shook herself, sighing. “I’ll see you, Mr. Argent,” she said goodbye, heading over to her Jeep and opening the door to climb inside.

“It’s Chris. And sleep well, Stiles,” Mr. Argent called out, then turned around to walk back to the trailers.

Stiles watched him go, her chin around her chest and her eyes wide.

*

Later that night, clean and tucked beneath her covers--her dad lied to and her heart racing, Stiles pressed her fingers to her lips.

“ _Chris_ ,” she sighed, tasting the sound of his name. Her face flushed hot, and she turned over quickly, burying her nose beneath her covers, staring sightlessly at her darkened wall.

She didn’t get much sleep that night.


End file.
